The thing about school and its rules, just like the Slovak culture, was that you had a sense of belonging. There was a place that embraced you and protected you.
And I will note that there were Sisters who were absolute joys, and who were doing just what they were meant to do. My aunt was one. And my eighth-grade nun was one of the kindest people I ever met, and fun. She decided that year we would hatch duck eggs, and the funniest thing was that when they hatched, they imprinted on her as their mother. Those ducklings followed her everywhere, and loved her, and frankly, so did I.
There were also rough ones. I had one of those I will speak of later, whom I refer to as Sister Rampage. And I had one who was a mix of the two. She wasn’t always the nicest to me, but she also saw “a problem,” and for the time, did what she could to help me.
That said, even as its sense of order felt safe, school also taught us right from the start, you weren’t going to be coddled….
There were RULES
So, as I learned quickly in first grade, rule #1 -Don’t cross the lunch ladies. If you do, you’re on your own.
And there were many other ones:
– We had a water fountain in the hallway…but don’t use it.
– You’d better not be caught throwing snowballs, but games like tag or Red Rover, the latter sure to hurt your feelings or body, were allowed.
– In the early years, the nuns couldn’t easily sneak up on you because the large set of rosary beads around their waist would rustle and give their presence away. But later, when they changed their habits and wore a small crucifix around their neck instead, they became “stealth nuns.” You never heard them coming.
– During a “multiplication-table bee,” Sister would fire multiplication questions at you. If you got any wrong, that night, in addition to your regular homework, you had to write those entire multiplication tables, 12 times. I got very good at writing straight columns of numbers on a sheet of paper. And, I will remember those tables until I die!
– There were lots of prayers, and you DID learn them all, BY HEART, along with the verbatim answers to a few hundred “Baltimore Catechism” questions.
– Before you could leave the cafeteria after lunch, your tray or lunchbox had to be inspected by the Sister posted at the garbage can. If you didn’t eat everything, you would be sent back to your seat to finish. And that especially included bread crusts.
– At Lent, you DID give up something, AND you got a Lent box that you better put coins into. This money went to the Missions.
– And the BIGGEST RULE OF ALL (aside from avoiding the lunch ladies) was to stay OUT OF THE RAVINE behind the school. Frankly, the dreaded “ravine” that they put the fear of God in us about was just a wooded area that went down an embankment to a branch of the Naugatuck River. Recently, I stopped by there and was amazed by the serenity of the place. But back then, they wanted us to stay out of there, so they drilled this one into us. One of my friends DID venture down there one time, and unfortunately, he fell and cut his hand, requiring stitches. So, of course, this proved that the place was cursed. And Sister Principal marched him into each classroom to be sure we all KNEW it.
Military Decorum
There was also a “military approach” to discipline.
If the Sister Principal, or one of the “Inspector Sisters” sent from the Motherhouse in Danville to check up on our school, walked into your classroom, the entire class stopped what it was doing, jumped out of their seats, and stood at attention. We would utter the greeting: “Praised be Jesus Christ, Good Morning, Sister….”
Special religious holidays came with processions. This meant the girls would be dressed in white dresses with a matching veil, white socks, black or white patent-leather shoes, gloves, and itchy crinoline slips. In thinking about it, I realize itchy crinoline slips are a redundant description because by their very nature, those things ARE itchy.
It also meant that we would spend hours in church before that day, practicing what I think of as Catholic “close-order drill.” That involved learning to walk two-by-two into church, then neatly split from our partners and enter pews on opposite sides of the aisle. At certain times, we would then step out of the pews, meet our partner and walk to the front of the church. There we split up again, marched around the perimeter aisles of the church, and met our partner again in the back of the church. At least, you’d BETTER meet up with your partner.
And for God’s sake, DON’T walk too fast. AND when you got back to your pew, you’d better kneel up STRAIGHT! No leaning back against the pew seat or the Sister behind you would poke you sharply in your spine with the pointed tips of her prayerfully-folded hands.
But at least, for this event, everyone would be in a good mood, and we got to carry flowers. To this day, I love hyacinths. The most common processions were on Holy Thursday night before Good Friday, and in May, for the annual crowning of Mary’s statue with a wreath of flowers.
Recruitment
And, there were “recruitment efforts.” All the girls were invited periodically to stay after school to help the nuns clean the convent. They did it to “demystify” nuns and show that they were human, and hopefully, help you become interested in “finding your vocation” to be a nun.
As to “demystify,” I remember in an early grade, seeing one of the Sisters climbing the school staircase and holding up the hem of her habit so she wouldn’t trip. I was shocked to see she had ANKLES! As for finding a vocation…to be honest, there were aspects of being a nun that drew me. And I think it went beyond looking for a way out of my house.
But anyway, most of us did go to help, and it wasn’t as bad as it sounds. When we finished all the chores, there would be snacks. And the Sisters had one of the best-stocked refrigerators going. So it was worth it for the snacks alone. But there was also a serenity there that I found lovely.
On those afternoons, we would dust and vacuum their main meeting room. Sometimes their bedrooms. Clean the bathrooms, and sometimes the basement or chapel. I loved their basement. It was like a treasure hunt with all kinds of things stored down there. And there was the mimeograph machine they used to print all our handouts and tests.
But the chapel…I LOVED the chapel. I always volunteered to clean that. It was silent, but I never felt “alone.” The altar had a crucifix and candles, and it was set up so the priest could say Mass there if needed. There were kneelers and prayer books, and the whole space felt “holy.” If ever there was a place you could sit and commune with God outside of church, this was it. So there were many an afternoon that I would just sit there and “chat” with God, and my friend, Mary, His mother.
The Nun “Action Figure”
There were things, though, that I definitely would have found either boring or impossible because those just weren’t my interests or skills. If I were to design the “Nun Action Figure,” it would have to come complete with the following, many of which I would fail at:
– A “pitchpipe” – EVERY Sister had one that she could whip out of her pocket at a moment’s notice to set the right tone before breaking out into song. This would NEVER be me. Why sing when you can just say it?
– The ability to sing – While some were better than others, almost all of them could sing and sound angelic. And they seemed to LOVE to sing. I hated it.
– Beautiful penmanship and cursive writing – Every single sister had cursive handwriting that just seemed to flow flawlessly across the page. And every one of their signatures seemed identical. It’s like there was a “Nun signature-style.” I, on the other hand, always had poor marks in penmanship, and more than one nun would try to wrench my hand into holding my pencil differently.
– A large set of rosary beads that would rustle as you walked. I *was* fascinated by these, but I already had several small sets, so I didn’t need these.
– A five-pronged chalk holder complete with chalk to draw music staffs across the board. And the chalk needs to be guaranteed to squeal worse than fingernails on a blackboard. Again, not my thing. I love songs that speak to my soul. I don’t love singing or being a musician.
“Creative Storytellers”
In an effort to instill a moral lesson in us, one nun had a unique approach: Storytelling. Now, on the surface, this sounds perfect and effective. At the very least, I will say that her approach was effective at telling a story I have NEVER forgotten and never will.
“There was a mother who, over the years, wasted so many peas. Every time she opened the can or frozen package, a few fell down the drain. And you can imagine how many peas went down that drain before she died.
After she died, she could not go to heaven. In fact, she couldn’t go anywhere. She was doomed to be stuck in her grave with her arm sticking out of the ground. And of course, she was very sad and would cry all the time.
One day, a priest was walking through the cemetery and heard her crying. He investigated and saw her arm sticking out. She then explained to the priest that she could not go on to heaven until someone made up for all the peas she wasted.
So the priest worked to make up for all that waste. (I have no clue how he did this – that wasn’t important to the story.) Once he did, she was finally able to go on to heaven.”
Moral of the story – don’t waste…especially peas!!!
I will comment that to this day, every time I open vegetable packages, I think of this story and smile. However, I still feel irritated that the “hero” was a priest. I mean, that poor, busy Mom wasn’t trying to waste peas. She just had a lot to do. And here was some priest, who didn’t have to cook for anybody, being the hero of the story.
On a more realistic note, I also have an early memory of one of the nuns telling us how she had a friend who lived in terror years ago, enduring war. She spoke of being able to hear the sound of approaching tanks and how terrifying that was. And that every night, the tanks got closer. I imagine this was probably somewhere in Europe during WWII. I was in school in the early 1960s, which was only 20 years later. So that is my guess.
I don’t remember anything else about the story, or why Sister told it, but it affected me deeply. I lived in fear that some night, in my bed, I too would hear the terrifying sound of approaching tanks and the destruction that would bring. I hoped that day would never come.
Positive Extras
There were also some warm and lovely things at school that I remember with great fondness. For example, the pastor there when I was younger was a kind old priest who enjoyed periodically surprising all the kids with popsicles. He would show up, unannounced, set up tables outside with boxes of popsicles or ice cream cups, and interrupt classes to give them out. The nuns weren’t happy about having the scheduled disrupted, not to mention having to deal with a bunch of sugar-filled kids after, but I always loved it. And you always knew when he was in the school because you could smell his cigars.
Another thing was that my mother was very involved there, both in the PTA and also for a time, helping one of the nuns set up a library. She and the Sister collected all the books from each classroom, cleaned out a storeroom downstairs, and turned it into a library for the school. Mom catalogued every single book according to the Dewey decimal system, repaired any books, and set up the whole card catalog. We would stop in to visit her when she was working there, and it was so nice. She was happy there, and I was so proud of her.
The nuns also knew how to celebrate things like Halloween and even enjoyed doing a Christmas show on the last day of school before break. While, of course, there were religious songs, we also got a visit from Santa and a box of Christmas candy.
Now, this was not a positive for the family who lost a loved one. But for those of us who joined the choir – and even I, who hated to sing, joined – we would be excused from classes to go to the church and sing at the funeral. So it was a way to get out of class for a little while.
The Scholastic book club, or whatever it was called back then, was my absolute JOY! Every year, they would have a book fair, and that was like heaven. An entire auditorium full of tables COVERED in books of all topics! But also, every month there would be a flyer of books we could order for ourselves! I would save up my allowance and spend most of it on books. It began my lifelong obsession with books, which are not just paper and words, but friends.
The Helpers
There were two nuns I particularly want to reflect on, who actually noticed something was wrong with me.
My third-grade nun was quite old, and about my height then. She was a tough taskmaster and the queen of making you write out multiplication tables hundreds of times until they were cemented in your brain. And she did the same with spelling words. And when I would go to the board and do a math problem incorrectly, she would come up and tap me on the head with a pencil and tell me to do it again until I got it right. But while all of this sounds tough, I found out later that she also expressed concern to my parents for me. She felt I was struggling in school, like there was a learning issue of some kind. Now, while I have never been the fastest learner and have been told in retrospect that I probably had some learning issues, I have to wonder if the real source of what she saw had to do with the stresses going on at home. Nothing more came of it, but there is a part of me that, in looking back, appreciates that somebody saw that I was struggling and tried to help. She affirmed my reality.
Then, there was my seventh-grade nun. Maybe the nun of most consequence in that whole school for me. I will call her Sister M. In a lot of ways, I could tell she did not like me. Some of that may have just been her personality. She was young, had her own issues, and I could tell she annoyed some of the other Sisters, though they would never admit it.
And some of Sister M’s techniques could be cruel. While I got good grades, one time she passed my notebook around the classroom as an example of what a notebook should NOT look like. That was humiliating.
But I also know I frustrated her to no end because I did not pay attention a lot in her class. During religion class lectures, I would instead be daydreaming that I had a fish stand in ancient Israel and would be coating the fish with bread crumbs to cook and sell to the Apostles. In the warm weather in the fall and in the spring, the windows would be open. I loved the smell of freshly cut grass and would be paying more attention to the lawn mowers outside than to whatever she was saying. One day, in total exasperation, because I was, again, “not present in the room,” she said that Stephen Foster, a 19th-century composer, must have written his song, “Beautiful Dreamer,” for me, because I NEVER paid attention.
I did find her science classes interesting, as she actually did experiments. And one time, she brought in a bunch of raw chicken legs that we dissected. I had never before thought about a chicken leg as a collection of nerves, muscles, tendons, and blood vessels. It was a revelation to me.
And to her credit, she did something else no other nun had done. She sent me with the school nurse to another school to have my hearing tested. She saw that something was wrong with me, and at least investigated it. She SAW it.
Of course, when my hearing test was normal, it did not go well for me. At that point, she just chalked up my issues to being a daydreamer. But, at least she tried. She just had no idea what was really wrong. I was no doubt dissociating, my way of coping with the stress of the abuse at home. But at that time, people never spoke of that. It was just not something anyone even considered investigating.
The fight – Dad’s mask slipps
She did scare me with her persistent harping at me about things. For some reason, she made me one of the officers for the “Sodality,” a club for the girls that was all about honoring Mary. We would be the ones who did the procession and the May crowning of the Mary statue outside. I don’t know why she made me an officer. Maybe to try to reach me and get me to learn responsibility?
However, the things she expected me to be present for, I couldn’t always do. If Dad decided at the last minute that we were going out of town on a Sunday, it didn’t matter that she had told me I had to be there for a club meeting. And there was no way for me to let her know.
I was caught between her and him. So, I was constantly getting chewed out by her in the hall for something I had no control over. And there was no way I could tell my father I couldn’t go wherever he said we were going.
My father ended up going to “discuss” this with her one evening, which, as I understand, turned into a huge argument with yelling. I don’t think that was really about me, though. And this would be one of his rare moments of letting his “mask of being a good guy” slip.
The reality is, she was challenging his power, his supreme authority, and that was a real hot button for him. The fact that she wouldn’t easily back down in that argument must have enraged him. She had no idea of the volatile force she was messing with.
I realize now that I have ADHD and severe PTSD. And the bottom line is that whether I came by ADHD naturally or as a result of the abuse, I was already dealing with that, and showing signs of PTSD then. I could never fully focus on learning, planning for the future, or growing into age-appropriate social skills. He derailed that. All I could ever do was try to survive whatever was happening in the moment. That is not an environment conducive to normal child development, and this would begin to show up more and more, very soon.
For years, I hated her for the way she kept at me for things. But looking back, I realize she was the one nun who really recognized that something wasn’t right. And that I was immature for my age and falling behind socially. She was trying what she could to reach me. And no doubt she tried to convey that to him. She was probably the one person in my life who actually tried to fight him, and if his description of their argument was correct, that had to have been traumatic for her. So, in thinking about her all these years later, I would like to thank her for trying.
Soul Mosaic 
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